


Behind the Clock Face

by OTP221B



Series: Baker Street Irregulars [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, New Year's Eve, Teenlock, baker street irregulars - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-04 06:52:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2956463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OTP221B/pseuds/OTP221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New Year's Eve Fic.</p><p>Sherlock and John go clubbing on New Year's Eve. For a case. Obviously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [phoenixdaisy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixdaisy/gifts).



> TRIGGER WARNINGS: implied child abuse, drug use, violence, and teenlock tropes. 
> 
> Minor Character Death. (Sorry, Wiggins, it had to be done.)
> 
> This one's for phoenixdaisy, who helped me with a Tuath De wrinkle or two.

John Watson's eating a sandwich and keeping an eye on a mark when the overcast skies open up in an afternoon deluge. Undeterred, he ducks under the nearest coffee shop overhang and continues chewing. The sandwich tastes a bit stale - he'd bought it off a cart as he'd trailed Sherlock's man along Belvedere Road - but it's his first meal of the day, so he's not complaining. He only wishes he'd had time to grab a coffee as well.

Thunder growls overhead. John finishes his pastrami on rye, licks breadcrumb from his fingers, and pulls the hood of his zip-up over his hair against the wet. The London Eye is a cheerful spin of lights in the grey downpour. John whistles a mournful little tune as he eyes the exit ramp. The guy on the telly was predicting snow for New Years, but rain's just fine. Rain might flood the little squatters' village under the Arches, but there were ways around that. A cold snap, on the other hand...

Well, a bloke might fall asleep in the cold and not wake up again.

The phone in the pocket of John's zip-up vibrates. He ignores it. Big Ben chimes 15 after and the Eye begins to slow. The phone in John's pocket vibrates again, insistent. The Eye stops and after a moment passengers begin to unload. John scoots out from beneath the overhang, trainers slapping through puddles as he jogs into the rain. He's at the bottom of the ramp when Sherlock's mark disembarks. John keeps jogging past, all uncaring, then steps sideways and ducks back around through the crowd of dispersing passengers so he can trail the man in the three piece suit from behind.

The phone in John's pocket rings. John snatches it up and puts it against his ear.

"John?" Sherlock sounds annoyed. "Why aren't you answering my texts?"

The man in the suit cuts left across the street toward the Aquarium. The rain is chasing away tourists, so John has to fall back so as not to be noticed.

"You want me to keep an eye on your posh gun mule, Sherlock, I'm not going to be looking at a phone screen keyboard when I'm supposed to be watching the crowd."

Sherlock grunts. John's texting ineptitude has become a sore point in their business relationship. Sherlock thinks John should treat the newly supplied smart phone like a third limb. John thinks a bloke busy texting when he should be paying attention to his surroundings is likely to be hit by a bloody London bus.

"So?" Sherlock demands. "Did he make the drop?"

"Yeah." Sherlock's mark has stopped to buy a brolly off a street vendor. John rolls his eyes at the waste of money even as rain drips down the back of his shirt. "He made it, alright. Got on the capsule with a bit more down the front of his pants than any _normal_ man's blessed with, if you take my meaning. Came out a bit less endowed. Not sure how he slipped it past the attendant."

"Bribery," Sherlock said. "Difficult, but not impossible, even in this day and age." He clears his throat down the line, and John narrows his eyes against grey London streets. He doesn't know Sherlock Holmes well, but John's a quick study, and he's picked up on a few of the other boy's more obvious tells. He's tempted to take the phone from his ear and read the missed texts, but the man in the suit is moving on again, brolly in hand, so John walks and waits for Sherlock to get to the point.

Which he does, without any more hesitation.

"Change of plans, John. I need you to meet me at Baker Street."

"Yeah, what?" Brolly Man stops just outside the Aquarium, and so does John. "What do you mean? What about...Fuck, I think he's going in. Buying a ticket. Sherlock -"

"Let him go, John. Baker Street, hurry. Something far more interesting's come up."

***

By the time John reaches Baker Street, he's soaked through. He sets a hand to the knocker, hesitates, then tries the door. It's unlocked, as he suspected, which he thinks is about as stupid as paying good money for a brolly off the street in the tourist district. John slips into the building, slamming the door shut behind.

"Sherlock!" he shouts, squelching up the steps. The flat's cold. He wonders if the boiler's gone out, or if Sherlock's been messing with the thermostat. "You're supposed to lock the bloody door. What if I was a fucking tweaker looking to score some cash?"

"This is Baker Street, John. Not the Arches." Sherlock's stood in the kitchen with his head in the avocado fridge.

John stops and stares. Sherlock's bent at the waist, his upper half disappeared behind the fridge's thick freezer door, his arse practically waggling about as he digs for whatever it is he's after. And it's not Sherlock's arse that makes John's jaw drop - although it's a perfectly fine arse as arses go - because John spends half his week looking at Sherlock's backside as the other boy rushes about through London's streets and back alleys and John dashes obediently after, so it's not as if John hasn't got an eyeful of Sherlock in bespoke trousers, or Sherlock in expensive denim. But John's never before seen Sherlock's arse clad in tight black leather, never even imagined such an unholy combination was likely. Because the soft black grain hugs Sherlock's arse like a second skin, giving Sherlock's bony form just a hint of never-before witnessed curve, and John feels blood rush up his throat and across his nose, and a decidedly nervous sweat pops across his forehead.

"What - Sherlock, what the Christ Jesus are you wearing?" 

Sherlock retreats from the open-mouthed fridge, a tinfoil wrapped bundle clutched in one hand. His brows quirk beneath a tumble of unruly curls and he actually smirks.

"Clubbing, John. We're going clubbing. You can't wear that." He gestures at John with the bundle in his hand. "You're wet through and the shoes are second-hand. Not _vintage_ , John, _second-hand_. You'll stick out like a sore thumb. Luckily." He swans across the kitchen and into the sitting room, and he's wearing biker boots at the end of his long legs, and a thin T-shirt whiter than the snow John's anticipating, and he's actually got a layer of leather and metal bracelets climbing his left arm from his wrist to his elbow. 

Sherlock drops gracefully to the floor, and begins to busily unwrap his little bundle. 

"Change of clothes for you in my room," he says, still smiling faintly. "Mycroft's provided."

"Mycroft," John repeats, feeling slow and stupid. Sherlock's T-shirt is cut like a V around the collar, and the sharp bones of his clavicle gleam in the light of the floor lamp Sherlock's recently added to the otherwise empty room. There's a new tat crawling up the left side of Sherlock's throat: a string of black barbed wire. Cliche, and John knows it's temporary. Still, he has to flex his fingers to keep from leaning forward and touching, just to make sure. 

"Mycroft's bank card," Sherlock explains. He's dipped his chin to examine whatever he's unwrapped in his lap, baring clavicle and neck and tattoo. He's doing it on purpose, John thinks, trying to provoke a reaction, playing his games. "You're dripping on the floor. Hurry up. I want to get there before the queue forms."

John swallows a groan, but knows better than to argue. He ducks into Sherlock's musty-smelling room, considers the clothes laid out across Sherlock's bed, and whistles three beats of the mournful tune still stuck in his head.

"Why're we dressing like toffs?" John kicks of his _vintage_ trainers and strips efficiently. His arms and legs and chest are covered with goose-pimples he's long ago learned to ignore. His pants are bagging around his crotch. He kicks them off after his wet socks, then plucks a pair of obviously brand-new jeans from the bed and eyes up the label with extreme misgiving. "Not just toffs, nutters. Christ, Sherlock. Money doesn't grow on trees."

"It does in Mycroft's garden." Sherlock's voice echoes in the mostly-empty flat. " _Hurry up_ , John. Don't forget the scarf. People will remember the garrote around your neck, and that won't do. Keep it hidden, please."

John pauses, flies half-way buttoned, and a rude retort on his tongue. But Sherlock is only speaking the truth. People  _do_ remember John's scar more often than they remember his face. So he only shakes his head. "It's not a garrote, Sherlock."

Sherlock doesn't bother reply. John finishes dressing. There's a black T-shirt in cotton so soft it feels like spun sugar, and a skull-emblazoned jumper for warmth, and black leather trainers lined with lambswool. The green and blue and red and yellow plaid scarf is surely cashmere, and there's a matching brimmed cap to along with.

"Toffs," John calls, loudly. "Posh prats."

"That's the Watson tartan," Sherlock rumbles from beyond the bedroom. "Mycroft's bank card has a sense of humor. Think of it as a disguise, John. Man up. Wiggins never turned down a new jumper."

"Not Wiggins," John reminds the other boy. He stomps back into the sitting room, ready to posture and snap, just for the principle of the thing. Sherlock's up and leaning on the counter, a ball of tin foil on the floor at his feet and an open glass jar on the counter by his elbow.  John narrows his eyes. Sherlock looks innocent as an angel all scrubbed up and poured into leather, but John knows good pot when he smells it, even if nothing's yet been burnt. "Really?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Freezer prevents desiccation, so long as the container's well-sealed." He looks John up and down, humming audible appreciation. "You'll do. You'll do quite nicely, John."

John scowls and has to forcibly remind himself not to gape again at Sherlock's arse.

"What's at the club, Sherlock? Better be good, innit it, as I spent all morning tracking your gun mule."

"Don't worry, John, you'll be well compensated." Sherlock shoves off the counter and looms over John, adjusting the fit of the plaid scarf. Sherlock smells of expensive aftershave and weed and toothpaste, and the barbed wire tat writhes when he swallows. "The gun mule's grown obvious and boring. _This_ is much more interesting, I assure you."

"Right." Sherlock's hanging onto the ends of John's scarf, stroking the fringe through long fingers. John wants to make a pointed remark about personal space, but knows it will only be ignored. "What's _this_ , then? Clubbing on New Year's Eve? Sounds a bit more like plain torture to me, mate."

"I think you'll change your mind." Sherlock smiles, but in the light of the single lamp John sees a flash of uncertainty or nerves in the other boy's strange eyes. "Wait and see. I think you'll find it very interesting, John. Very interesting indeed."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: implied child abuse, drug use, violence, and teenlock tropes.
> 
> Minor Character Death. (Sorry, Wiggins, it had to be done.)
> 
> This one's for phoenixdaisy, who helped me with a Tuath De wrinkle or two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't get to the midnight kisses. That will have to happen tomorrow night, because I'm old and tired and ready for bed.

In his sixteen long years John's never been inside a London club, but he's not about to admit that to Sherlock. And while he may have picked up a few gigs selling cheap smokes to minors outside a few off-street warehouse raves, he's never been anywhere near a joint like _The Clock Face_. He knows he's in trouble the minute he slides out of the cab and follows Sherlock across wet pavement toward blinking neon. The brick building in Sherlock's sights seems understated at first glance. But as John trots after his friend he can't help but notice the building's sidewalks are swept clean of trash, the bricks recently hosed down, and the queue forming along red velvet ropes mad up of young people dressed like money's no option, and never has been.

The bouncer's skinny and white and wearing denim and silk. He's wearing a feathered fascinator atop his shaved head, and a ring in his lower lip. He scowls when he sees Sherlock, and shakes his head, making feathers bounce.

"Nope, nuh-uh, no way. Last time you were here, mate, we had to close the place down for bloody ever."

Sherlock pouts. Evening is fading to night, and the flashing _Clock Face_ neon paints stripes across his sharp cheekbones. "Hardly my fault Lestrade discovered you were serving underage, Wendy." 

"You brought the nosy bloke here, didn't you?"

"I had no choice, there was a dead girl in _your loo_." Sherlock sounds both aggrieved and morbidly hopeful, and he's making no attempt to speak quietly. Several people in the queue glance their way, and Wendy's scowl grows positively dangerous. John sets his hand on Sherlock's elbow, squeezing, even as awards the bouncer a friendly smile.

"No dead bodies tonight, yeah, mate." John dips his hand into the pocket of Sherlock's cashmere peacoat. The coat's incongruous over leather and studs, but somehow it works. More importantly, John noticed Sherlock shoving a handful of bills into left pocket before they left 221b. He extracts the entire handful, makes the transfer to Wendy in the guise of handshake. Wendy rolls his dark eyes at John's odd etiquette, and counts the fistful of pounds in plain site of their queued audience.

"We're just here for a few drinks and a good time. New Year's Eve and all." Sherlock's bristling under John's hand. John squeezes his elbow again in warning. "Dancing till stroke of midnight, all that. Right, Sherlock?"

"Absolutely." Sherlock awards Wendy a bright and brittle smile. "Drink. Dancing. Stroke of midnight."

The bouncer studies John thoughtfully. The cash has disappeared up his sleeve or into his pocket, and it seems he's decided it's enough.

"Right," he says. "Go on in. Records man's just setting up now, but the bar's open. You." His fascinator catches neon light as he nods at John. "What's your name?"

"Watson," John replies, as Sherlock wriggles with impatience under his hand. 

"Watson. Keep that one in line. I get closed down again, I'm out a license."

"Sir," John says. "Yes, sir." Then he plants his palm firmly between Sherlock's shoulders and propels the his friend past red velvet ropes and into the club.

The house lights are still on inside the building, industrial fluorescents shedding blue light. Sherlock whirls and awards John the same petulant pout he'd directed at the bouncer, but his eyes are sharp and full of deductions.

"Your father is a military man," he says. "I suspected so, but wasn't sure until now. You jumped when he said hop." Sherlock sweeps John with a glittering stare. "Until you decided you'd rather run."

"Nice try, mate." John's own glare is just as pointed. "But you're just guessing."

"I never guess." The other boy shrugs out of his coat and tosses it at John. John catches the swoop of cashmere just before it hits the lino. By the time John straightens up, Sherlock is striding across the warehouse, bypassing the concrete and glass bar and heading straight for the records man sat with his equipment on a raised platform at the far end of the building. John rolls his eyes and follows more slowly, taking time to eye up the decor: more neon tubing, a sparse selection of tall bar stools and taller tables, and gigantic black speakers set up along sound-proofed walls and corners.

Someone's invested in the place. The speakers look high-end, as do the multi-lensed dance lights hanging from the ceiling. The bar's well stocked, glass shelves illuminated in stripes of blue and pink and purple. The club's name is picked out in neon above the bar. The woman behind the bar catches John scoping the place, and tosses him a cheerful smile.

"Pour you something?" She's tall and muscular, with hair the color of those purple candies Harry used to love so, and she's wearing an actual tuxedo. "You're not wearing a cuff."

John bellies up against the bar, spreading Sherlock's coat on a stool. "Bloke outside just let us in. Don't imagine we'll be staying long. My friend's got business." He jerks a thumb at Sherlock, who's chatting up the records man.

The bartender reaches behind a shelf and slides John a paper bracelet. The cuff's white and embossed in three places with a stamp John's seen once before. 

"'Safe place'." John quirks a brow at the pink-triangle-in-green-circle. "This a gay bar?"

"Nope." The woman lifts an eyebrow right back. "Just like it says, _The Clock Face_ is a safe place. We get all kinds, and we like it that way. What'll you have?" _  
_

"Not going to ask for ID? Wendy out there seemed worried about...you know...the liquor license."

"You sixteen?"

"Last March."

"Well, if you're a friend of Holmes, I won't take your coin, so we're all legal." 

"Cheers. Harp?"

The bartender pulls John a pint, all the while looking over his shoulder in the direction of the records man. "What's he about? Holmes?"

John accepts his pint with a wink. "No idea. I'm just here for the music."

The woman laughs and shakes her head, and John thinks she's seen right through him. "Better go grab him, then, because the music's about to start."

***

Sherlock's worked himself into a state, though John thinks he's the only one can see it. His friend and employer's gone pink about the cheeks, and his mouth's pulled straight in an indignant line. The records man's looking equally annoyed, though he's hiding it well, sorting through real vinyl records and messing about with a mountain of electronics. The entire platform's covered with snaking cord and mysterious levers and buttons and blinking lights. John thinks it looks a bit like the entire setup's ready to take off vertical and burst through the warehouse ceiling.

"Hey." He nudges Sherlock. "Forgot your coat, didn't you?"

"Didn't." The tat on Sherlock's throat writhes when he swallows. "John, meet DJ Sparkle. Not his real name, obviously. You recognize him, of course."

"Okay." John lifts his pint in greeting. DJ Sparkle awards John a wan smile. He's small and dark-haired, in his late forties, and not at all sparkly. John wonders if the name's supposed to be a joke, even as he thinks there's something about the man that _does_ ring familiar.

He realizes Sherlock's watching him expectantly and takes a sip of Harp to stall for time. Nothing clicks until Sparkle, growing impatient, frowns. The expression changes his face, makes him look somehow younger and more dangerous at the same time.

"Oh. Ah. He's a Wiggins?" John says, with some trepidation. He supposes theres no reason to assume every Wiggins in London is an arse, but he puffs up just in case.

"Alf Wiggins," Sherlock confirms. "Our William's equally enterprising cousin."

"And I told you," DJ Sparkle thumps his fist on his sound board. "I haven't seen Will'm for weeks. He's not been sniffing around here, an' I'd know't if he were. Kicked him to the kurb last I caught him stealing from the Julie's till, didn't I?" He indicates the bartender with a flick of his fingers. "Couldn't risk it. Wendy catch on, I'd be canned, and I need this gig."

John believes him. Sherlock's chewing at his lower lip, blinking rapidly. John's about to demand an explanation when the house lights break to black and the dance lights come on, strobing the warehouse. For a moment John's blind. The speakers roar to life so suddenly he almost drops his pint, and DJ Sparkle gets down to business. There's an arm around John's waist and because he fan feel the grind of leather and metal bracelets through his thin T-shirt, he doesn't protest when he's dragged away from the sound platform.

The warehouse floor is filling with people. John's still clutching Sherlock's coat and trying not to slosh Harp onto his new togs. They end up back against the bar, pressed into a corner on the edge of a growing crowd of thirsty patrons. DJ Sparkle's apparently into 80s tunes, because he's playing an oddly appealing mash-up of Madonna and Mozart. Sherlock plucks John's drink away and sets it on the bar. He's still got on hand on John's hip, anchoring him in place. In the flash of dance light Sherlock's a chameleon, his pale flesh turning from blue to green to red and back again.

"Right." John has to lean in to make himself heard against the music. "What's this all about, then? What's Wiggins up to?"

Sherlock speaks directly into John's right ear, his breath a warm puff against John's lobe. John shivers in surprise, and Sherlock's one-handed embrace tightens.

"He's gone missing."

"Missing?" John has to close his eyes against the turmoil of crowd and color. "He's scarpered, yeah, since the mess with the Morstans, but I figured he's just pissed I've stepped into his shoes. Scarpered's not 'missing', Sherlock. If he'd gone missing one of Irregulars would have said something. We look out for each other, yeah? Wiggins, too, even if he is dick-for-brains."

Sherlock's so close against John's side he can feel the skinny boy's ribs shift as he sighs. "Don't be naive, John. The Irregulars look after each other so long as dick-for-brains isn't sinking the ship. Good of the many outweighs the good of the one. Always."

John opens his eyes. They're standing nearly nose-to-nose, the energy of the club pumping in eddies over and around and under.

"I think you're wrong. What's he done, anyway?"

Sherlock hesitates. Then he shrugs. "Stolen something of mine. I need it back."

 _Interesting_ , John thinks. More interesting than a gun mule. The Baker Street Irregulars owed Sherlock Holmes their livelihood. Most of the homeless network worshipped Sherlock not just for his generous hand with the cash, but because, as arrogant and rude as he could be, the boy always saw them as human. Fallible and less-than-clever. But human. In a city where most people never saw the homeless at all.

"That's bloody ballsy. What'd he take?"

Sherlock doesn't answer. A girl in six-inch heels shimmies by, almost stepping on John's foot. She apologies loudly, and asks for John's digits while she squeezes his hand. John doesn't really have digits - the mobile in his pocket by all rights belongs to Sherlock - but he doesn't want to admit the failing, so he reels out a set of fake numbers. Sherlock somehow manages to knock John's drink off the bar and onto the girl's blouse, and suddenly she's not so friendly. She flounces off, rocking on high heels, and John gives Sherlock the stink-eye.

"Bit uncalled for," he complains. "Might have got lucky."

"Not with that one." Sherlock removes his hand from John's waist and slings it instead around John's shoulders. He shimmies mockingly against John, a rude caricature of the fleeing opportunity. "She's here with her overly-protective and physically impressive older brother."  


"How'd you - " Sherlock's warm against John, his arm an anchor. He's pressed so close John thinks he could nudge forward and lick the track of Sherlock's tat with the tip of his tongue. It's a dangerous fantasy, and one he tries quickly to dismiss, even as his mouth fills with saliva and there's an answering curl of curiosity low in his belly. "Never mind. Jesus. Right. Okay. Well, Wiggin's not here, and you're obviously not going to tell me what he lifted, so can we go home? This place is stifling."

"Really, John. You're jumping to conclusions." Sherlock looks down his nose, his smirk so positively self-satisfied that John wants to kick him in the shins. "Wiggins _is_ here. We just need to find him."

"Oh, bloody hell. Are you sure?" John has to stand on the toes of his fancy new trainers, and even then he can barely see over most of the boiling dance floor. "How the fuck can you even see...Again, never mind. Of course you'll find him. Got a plan, mate?"

"Yes," says Sherlock. He steers John forward, into the milling chaos. "Time to dance."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on Tumblr. Like The Clock Face, my blog's a safe place.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: implied child abuse, DRUG USE, violence, and teenlock tropes.
> 
> Minor Character Death. (Sorry, Wiggins, that stuff will kill you.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right. Hoped for three chapters but it wants to be four. Sorry. Likely I'll post the last chapter Saturday (1/3/15) as my day and night are packed tomorrow. Sorry Sorry.
> 
> I've learned more about drug slang tonight than I've ever wanted to.
> 
> Also, PSO is Probation Services Officer.

The music thumps and groans. It's a new mash-up, full of electronica and howling. John doesn't recognize the lyrics. The dance floor's so crowded it's impossible to dance without grazing arse or hip or elbow against a stranger. John's not exactly buzzed, but he does feel pleasantly light-headed. He loves music. He's always loved music, and Sparkle seems to know his game because whatever the hell he's playing creeps into John's blood and bones and makes him want to rock with the sound, stamp the lino and throw his head back and laugh.

Sherlock has other ideas. The taller boy links his arms around John's neck, slides himself against John's front, and sways seductively. Sherlock's sweating through his shirt, and John's dripping perspiration, and their flesh sticks and slides. John realizes he's lost Sherlock's fancy coat back at the bar, but he's properly caged in and when he tries to catch Sherlock's attention the music drowns away his shout. Sherlock's staring over John's head even as he grinds against John's hip. John suspects he's being used in another of Sherlock's on-going odd games, and finds he doesn't like it at all. The other boy's sexy as hell in spite of his rigid smile and from appreciative looks they're getting John in his barmy tartan scarf isn't for nothing either.

"Sherlock!" John shouts, but Sherlock's muttering to himself beneath the music. While his body's perfectly in tune with John's own, it's obvious is brain is far removed. 

John tilts his head back, watches the flash of strobe across Sherlock's distant expression, and decides to be amused. When the music switches to a low growl, he takes the initiative, gripping Sherlock's hips and pushing until Sherlock's forced to take several steps back and three more to the left just to avoid collision. Sherlock blinks in surprise and opens his mouth on whats likely to be a scathing retort, but John's decided enough is enough and takes that taste of Sherlock's temporary tat.

Sherlock freezes when John's lips brush against the hollow of his throat. John laughs against Sherlock's salty flesh, then begins to lick and nibble and nuzzle his way up the graceful column of Sherlock's throat. The tat tastes awful, of paper and adhesive, but past that first shock the other boy is all expensive after-shave and clean soap and a light musk that must be _just Sherlock_.

_Fucking delicious_ , John thinks, and smiles against Sherlock's racing pulse.

"John!" Sherlock's affronted cry is loud enough to be heard over the DJ. "What are you - Stop that! I can hardly keep an eye on...when you're... _oh."_

The last is a gasp of surprise as John sinks his teeth deep and sucks hard, determined to leave his mark over the tattoo. Bits of decal come off in his mouth. Sherlock goes limp, knees bumping John's thighs. John holds the other boy steady until he's satisfied Sherlock will remember him when he looks in the mirror next morning. Then he pulls his mouth free with a pop.

Sherlock's lashes are fluttering. The dance crowd rolls around them, uncaring. They've been too still too long, and people are smiling and pointing. John doesn't care. He stands on his toes and shouts into Sherlock's ear. "You're hot as bloody hell, Holmes, but I'm not your accessory. Might remember that, yeah?"

Sherlock's looking at John now, finally giving John his full attention, and it's a bit uncomfortable to be stared at so thoroughly, but John finds he doesn't mind. Sherlock's found his feet again, taken his weight from John's steadying grip. He lifts one hand to his neck, presses fingers against the slowly forming bruise. His face has gone redder than the tint of dance lights might explain, and his eyes are blown black.

John grins.

Sherlock frowns, obviously baffled. Then his mouth relaxes into a reluctant smile. 

"Sorry," he yells. "I didn't mean...You're hardly my _accessory_ , John."

"Not pricey enough, yeah?" But John's purposefully gentle. "Whyn't you tell me what you've been staring at over my shoulder for the last ten?"

***

They make their way through the crowd, Sherlock leading John by the hand. They're heading back toward the records man and John thinks Sherlock's going to make another go at Wiggins' cousin, but just as they reach the raised platform Sherlock tugs John sideways into a narrow corridor marked 'LOO' in neon. It's a loo walk like any other, dark and sticky-floored, doors to the Gents and the Ladies banging as patrons hurry in and out. Only there's another door farther down - EXIT - and the queue for that is longer than the wait for the toilet. The door's cracked open, letting wet and cold in on a draft. John's pretty sure blocking the fire exit's hardly kosher, and the muscular bloke herding people in and out through the gap looks like a bouncer, but he's not. He's a PSO, and he's definitely got no business collecting dosh as he lets people out through the door.

Sherlock glances sideways at John, lush mouth curling. "I did say you'd find this interesting," he shouts. His fingers are still tangled with John's. He yanks John forward until they've joined the EXIT queue.

There's a sinking feeling in John's gut and it's got only half to do with the pop and flare of match light. He can't help himself. He puts a hand up against his throat, not to check for love marks, but to make sure his tartan scarf is still in place. Sherlock tilts his head, eyes gleaming, and John supposes the other boy is busy deducing again, but even a bloody mind-reader wouldn't guess the violence of John's thoughts.

The line moves forward. There are only three people between John and Sherlock and the man collecting money. John knows better than to duck away, and Sherlock's wrapped himself around John again, keeping him from cowardice. Still, he exhales nerves, and Harry must be right and God's fucking dead because PSO Moran immediately looks up and over and catches John's eye. He starts in surprise, and the virgin cigarette clenched between his teeth wobbles up and down.

"Man up, John," Sherlock says into John's ear. "He can't cause you any trouble _now_." The last is said with scorn.

John thinks that bloody genius Holmes has no idea, but he's not going to run now Moran has him in his sights. They shuffle their way forward until there's no one between John and his erstwhile PSO. Moran looks Sherlock briefly up and down, then takes his unlit cig from his mouth and smiles at John with real affection.

"Johnny Quick," he says. He ruffles the pile of money in his hand, a nervous tick. "It's been...what? Three years. Thought for sure you'd done a runner."

"Really?" Sherlock drawls while John's still trying to formulate a response. "Did you bother check? Make sure he wasn't...say...floating face down in the Thames?"

Moran bristles. "Did. Talked to his sister before I filed my report, didn't I? Harry said you'd scarpered down south, Johnny, and you weren't hanging about any of the usual places no more. Speaking of." He jerks his free thumb back toward the dance floor. "Record's not closed, kid. You shouldn't be hanging around a place like this."

"Thought it was a safe place," John retorts. He looks pointedly at the cash in Moran's hand, then past the gap in the door at the flicker and pop of busy crack pipes. "Oi, you're, what? Keeping an eye out for juvenile offenders? You switched to drugs squad? Not blowing your cover, am I?"

There are people queuing up behind John and Sherlock, shoving. It's obvious they're meant to pay up and step out, not chat up the doorman.

Moran's green, and not because of the shifting strobe. "Look, Johnny," he tries, but Sherlock shuts him up.

"Pay the man, John." He smiles at Moran, a cat sizing up a mouse. "I'm afraid I'm all out."

John knows he is, because John filched his petty cash for Wendy the Bouncer. John's got a fiver in his back pocket. He's doubtful that will do, but Moran waves the attempt away and lets them through for free. 

"Stuff will kill you, Johnny," he says as they squeeze past and out into the night. "Break you're sister's heart."

John agrees, but doesn't say so. Sherlock's still clinging like a barnacle to his hand. John can feel Moran's thoughtful stare between his shoulder blades as they leave The Clock Face for the alley behind.

***

 It's quiet behind the club, the thrum of music through the cracked door more vibration than sound. There's an industrial bin and what John's come to think of as a 'tramp fire' - an old metal barrel stocked with trash and kindling and set afire for heat. It's stopped raining, but it's still cold. John can smell coming snow over the stink of addict. He shudders and Sherlock peels away from his side. 

"You think Wiggins is out here?" John asks, low. "Wiggins isn't a junkie, Sherlock. He may have dick-for-brains, but he's not a complete idiot."

John can't see Sherlock's expression for the shifting shadows, but the other boy's sudden inhale suggests John's hit a nerve. John remembers the syringes and tourniquet hidden in Sherlock's first aid kit and shakes his head.

"Fuck, Sherlock."

Sherlock huffs. "I'm not a junkie, John. Nor is Wiggins. But our Billy likes to think of himself as a business man. I gave you his old business. He decided to try a new line. At my expensive, I'm afraid."

"Yeah?" John glances around the alley. He sees at least six damned souls squatting or sitting near the tramp fire, addicts in search of a oblivion. None of the slack faces belong to Bill Wiggins. He feels a shiver of relief, followed quickly by a flare of disgust. "This isn't my thing, Sherlock. How about I wait inside?" He doesn't want to abandon the other boy in the makeshift crack den, but the whole thing's giving him goosebumps, and he thinks PSO Moran's still watching him through the door.

"This'll just take a minute." Sherlock moves across the alley toward the industrial bin. The flames roaring in the barrel shine his leather and illuminate John's mark on his throat. They also pick out a slim figure perched atop the bin, and John jerks in surprise.

"Sherlock Holmes." A boy only a little older than John and Sherlock, squatting on his heels up on the closed bin. He's a posh git, dressed in a suit and a long black coat, the gleam of a lit cig between his pale fingers. His dark hair is slicked back and John thinks there's either a smudge of shadow or a hint of mustache growing beneath his sharp nose. "Sherlock, _Sherlock_. Is this wise? Does your big brother know you're out and about with the riffraff? Have you come for a New Year's snog?"

"Moriarty." Sherlock stands in front of the bin and lifts his chin. John ignores the warning butterflies in his gut and takes his place behind Sherlock's right shoulder. "Where's Wiggins?"

The boy atop the bin has dark insect eyes. He widens them dramatically in John's direction. "Wiggins? Inside, I suppose, spinning his sparkly tunes. He's not the best DJ, I'll admit, but he's an excellent lookout and bag man."

"Wrong Wiggins," Sherlock snaps. He's beginning to vibrate, and not in time with the distant thump of music. "Wiggins the younger. He's here, isn't he? He's not left yet, if his idiot brother's any indication.'

Moriarty's silent for a moment, busy smoking his cigarette. Then he sighs.

"Who're you?" he demands of John. When John refuses to answer, he sighs again, then hops from the bin, all swoop and spin, and puts himself firmly in Sherlock's space. "Shouldn't dirty your new toys, Sherlock," he sings around the cigarette in his mouth. "At least not until you've had a good long play. You know information's not free. Nothings free. What'd you bring me?"

Sherlock's stopped quivering, but he's gone still and tight and John thinks that's somehow worse. Then Sherlock reaches under his shirt and retrieves the baggie of weed. He drops it into Moriarty's waiting hand, expressionless.

"Kronic," he says. "From NSY's evidence locker. I trust it will buy your noninterference. Now, _where is he_?"

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on Tumblr just to see my new, adoraaaaaable icon.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New Year's Eve Fic.
> 
> Sherlock and John go clubbing on New Year's Eve. For a case. Obviously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: implied child abuse, ACTUAL drug use, violence, and teenlock tropes.
> 
> Minor Character Death. (Sorry, Wiggins, I'll miss you.)
> 
> This one's for phoenixdaisy, who helped me with a Tuath De wrinkle or two.

They find Bill Wiggins passed out in the alley behind The Clock Face, propped against a pile of wooden pallets. He's wrapped in the old wool blanket John remembers from Wiggins' flop beneath the Arches, but he's got a brand new knit cap pulled down over his ears, and a new pair of trainers on his feet. He looks uncomfortable; his head tilted back against the pallets, one hand flopped loosely open on the muddy ground, palm collecting raindrops.

It's that open palm that convinces John something's not right. That and the gleam of Wiggin's half-open eyes in the flash of Moriarty's electric torch.

"Jesus." John rushes ahead, pushing past Sherlock and Moriarty. He kneels in the muck at Wiggin's side, grabs the other boy's lax hand. "Bill! Oi, Wiggins!" He touches Wiggin's cheek. Bill's head lolls away from from the pressure of John's fingers. His lips are blue and flecked with saliva. There's a pulse beneath his jaw, but it's too fast and too weak, barely indistinguishable from the thrum of club music through the alley floor.

"Sherlock!" John snaps. "999, now." But Sherlock's already got his phone out, ahead of John as usual, calmly reciting their location to dispatch on the other end. Moriarty's less calm. He whistles sharply, a warning, then retreats back down the alley toward the club entrance, taking his light with him. John's busy counting Wiggins' pulse, but he hears the scurry of addicts fleeing, the hiss and spatter as someone pours water over the tramp fire. 

"Come on, Bill," he pleads, kneading the other boy's cold fingers with his free hand. "You're too stubborn to go out this way, mate. What the hell were you thinking?"

Wiggins doesn't respond. Sherlock crouches next to John. He sweeps Wiggins' pitiful form up and down and side to side with the light off his mobile screen. 

"On their way," Sherlock says, meaning the paramedics. "John, his right arm."

"What about it?" Wiggins' pulse is so quick as to make it difficult to distinguish one beat from the next. _God, flatline_ , John thinks, and suddenly remembers the stupid prayer Father Joe used to make the entire boys' level recite together every evening before bed.  _Yea, though I walk in the valley of the shadow of death..._

"Roll up his sleeve, please."

John's reluctant to take his fingers from Wiggins' throat, but he hears sirens in the distance, and something in Sherlock's tone spurs him to action. John pushes back the wool blanket, gently takes Wiggins' right arm, rolls up the cotton sleeve of his shirt. Sherlock aims the light off his mobile at Wiggin's inner elbow, and grunts in morbid sounding satisfaction.

"See it?" he asks.

"Yeah, so? He shot up. Stupid git. Stupid, stupid." John's not a crier. He gave up tears a long time ago. Still, there's a lump in his throat and he's not ashamed when his voice cracks. "Just the once?" He checks Wiggin's left arm. "Clean. Just the once. Bad luck, that."

The sirens are close, now. Sherlock kneels in the mud, ruining his leather pants. "Quick, John. The needle?"

"Christ, Sherlock, careful!" John grabs the other boy's shoulder. "Don't go fumbling around blind. One accidental jab and - "

Billy makes a sudden noise, a soft sound somewhere between a sigh and a sneeze. Sherlock jerks and the light from his mobile wavers. John reaches immediately for Wiggins' wrist.

_...I will fear no evil..._

"Fuck, I can't feel anything, he's gone," John says. "Fuck, Sherlock, help me...get him flat..."

The sirens and flashing lights are at far end of the alley. John starts chest compressions even as Sherlock runs to meet the paramedics. Rain's falling on Wiggins' slack face, and the burst of New Year's fireworks reflect in colors across his staring eyes. John doesn't hear the distant celebratory concussions. He's too busy counting.

***

They take Wiggins away on a gurney, and the paramedics are still trying to save his life, but John knows it's a lost cause. Sherlock's standing at the mouth of the alley, arguing with the police in that special way Sherlock has, more posturing and sharp retorts than any real heat. John joins the small group reluctantly. There's no point in running. The cops have seen him, and even famous Johnny Quick's unlikely to escape on foot if they decide to give chase. 

The ambulance pulls away, lights flashing, sirens gone silent. John realizes he's lost his cap in the confusion. He tugs on the end of his scarf as he steps up on Sherlock's right side. There are two coppers, a lady and a bloke, and John's seen the lady beneath the Arches before during one of the regular NSY sweeps. She looks at him with disgust but no recognition, and John realizes with a twitch of dark amusement that she doesn't mark him in clean clothes and expensive shoes.

"Name?" she demands, pen clenched near to breaking between her fingers. John supposes she's reacted to Sherlock the way most people seem to, with faint fascination and real dislike. 

"Hamish," John says politely. "Hamish Holmes."

Sherlock coughs an indrawn breath. The second cop, busy on his radio, pauses and looks John over. 

"Another one?" He sounds incredulous. "Brothers?"

"Not likely," John says. "Cousins, and distant." He thinks of Alfred Wiggins but refuses to let his new posh tones slip up.  "I'm down from school and Sherlock promised me a good time. I will say he could do better." He shudders dramatically. "Frightfully exciting and all, but I prefer my dead bodies on the the telly, don't you know?"

The lady cop is staring. John wonders if maybe he's made a mess of it after all. His public school accent is off BBC Four and so stilted as to be almost laughable. Then Sherlock nudges him and John realizes she's actually staring  _past_ them both. He looks over his shoulder and sees rescue in the form of a black sedan and Mycroft Holmes, and the relief he feels is almost physical.

"Bloody Hell," the cop says, "here we go. His nibs come to spring the bad seed."

"Shut it, Donovan," her partner warns. "I'd like to keep my job in the New Year, thanks." He pastes a bright smile on his round face, and turns to meet Sherlock's brother.

Donovan sighs and takes down another set of John's fake digits, and then John's being yanked through the rain and bundled into Mycroft's black sedan. He's grateful for the blasting heat, and the expressionless driver, but Sherlock's self-satisfied smirk makes him grind his teeth.

"Person's dead, Sherlock," John says, watching a pantomime of Mycroft and the cops through the car window. "Maybe don't smile for a while, yeah?"

"Right arm, John. _Right arm_." Sherlock says, bouncing his fingers on leather upholstery. "Pay attention. Billy tried to break your nose in Trafalgar square. Which fist did he use?"

"Right." John says. Past the window Mycroft has left the cops and is striding back through the rain. "He's right-handed."

"Exactly. John." Exasperated, Sherlock tugs on John's sleeve until John gives up and turns away from the window. Satisfied that he has John's attention, Sherlock nods once and continues, speaking rapidly. "His left arm was clean, John. _Clean_. But he was right-handed. Not likely he's going to use his non-dominant hand on the plunger, John. Mark was on the wrong arm. _The wrong arm_."

"Okay," John replies cautiously as Mycroft opens the passenger side door and slips out of the rain. "Like I said, Wiggins wasn't a junkie. But maybe he decided to experiment, take a taste, you know? And maybe he needed help, first time 'round...maybe someone else - "

"Tied the tourniquet, bridged up, popped the vein? Yes, I think that's likely."

"Okay," John repeats. He's not sure what the other boy's getting at. Or, rather, he thinks he might understand Sherlock's pointed stare, but he doesn't want to believe it. "So, someone helped him, and it went bad. Happens sometimes. A lot, actually."

It's not Sherlock who answers, but his enigmatic brother. "I fear you're about to  discover, _Cousin Hamish_ , what Sherlock and I both already know all too well and William Wiggins learned the hard way: young James Moriarty is the absolute antithesis of 'help'." 

The sedan is pulling away from the curb, leaving the spinning police lanterns behind. Mycroft leans over the front seat, tosses something into Sherlock's lap. John catches a glimpse of a rectangular wooden case, dark and deeply polished, before Sherlock shelters it protectively with his hands.

"It's empty," Mycroft says. "And if you're as intelligent as you pretend, little brother, you'll burn it, and dump the ashes in the river. Sentiment be damned."

***

221B is still miserably cold, so John ventures down into the depths of the basement and pounds on the boiler a few times until he manages to restart the pilot light. He stands still and alone, listening to water bubble, thinking of poison in Wiggins' veins, until he hears Sherlock's petulant call and trudges back up the stairs. The lamp's lit in the sitting room, and Sherlock's put the kettle on and changed out of club togs and into track pants and a tattered grey sweatshirt. He's standing at the window, watching fireworks burst above London, and he looks somehow fragile and wild at the same time.

"Almost midnight," he says, accusatory, as though John should have been paying attention. "Five till."

"Right." The Morroco case is open on the kitchen counter. It's lined with red velvet. John can guess what it once held; he sees multiple imprints in the nap of the velvet, but he needs to hear Sherlock say it. "What's the case about?"

Blue and red stars burst behind the window as Sherlock blinks at John. "You've deduced the answer, obviously. You've seen my first aid kit."

"Whatever was in there," John decides, "killed Bill Wiggins."

"No," Sherlock corrects. He scrubs pale hands through his curls, takes three strides away from the window, hesitates in front of John. "Jim Moriarty killed Wiggins, I know it. Mycroft knows it. You know it, too, John."

John unwraps the scarf from about his throat, just to give his hands something to do, and lets it coil on the floor. "Why would he do that, Sherlock? This isn't some sort of...fairy tale. This is real life. And real life, no matter what you and your barmy brother think, is much less dramatic and far uglier than imagined murder. Bill Wiggins overdosed. It happens. He stole your secret stash, or whatever the hell it was, decided to sell it off, fund his 'new business'. Even I can deduce that much. Only he got stupid, decided to sample the juice, and it was bad." John takes the final step, closes the distance between them, grips Sherlock's thin shoulders hard with both hands. "It happens, Sherlock. Shit happens. Don't shine it up and try to make it all less pathetic, yeah?"

Sherlock looks down and sideways, his eyes shards of silver in the lamp light. "Johnny 'Quick'?" he asks the bare floor.

John laughs reluctantly. "I've always been good at running. Especially after a lift. Nobody ever caught me."

"Nobody?" Sherlock looks up, then, and fastens that silver gaze on the scar encircling John's throat. John thinks he can feel the weight of that curiosity, of Sherlock's desire to  _know_. It's uncomfortable, that extreme focus, but also flattering, although John's learned better than to take Sherlock's attention as anything other than face value.

 _He likes puzzles_ , John thinks. _So long as I'm not solved, he'll keep me about._

He's thinking that he doesn't mind being kept about, earning a solid paycheck, having an ally in the city - even if that ally's almost more trouble than the paycheck is worth - when out beneath the fireworks Big Ben strikes midnight. Just like that, one year turns over and another begins, and Sherlock Holmes smiles a challenge.

"Midnight," he says, and licks his lips provocatively. John stiffens. He's expected this, known Sherlock would want his own back after John had sucked his mark into that sweet pale flesh. It had been different in the club, felt different: a game, a conspiracy, a game of dress-up and charades, a bit of mischief and, yeah, desire, but there'd also been people about, plenty of people, and John knew better than most there was safety in numbers.

"John," Sherlock coaxes. "One kiss. It's tradition."

John remembers Sherlock's arse in the lovely tight leather. Sherlock's temp tattoo is still visible, marred only by the purple of John's bruise. John wants to taste that graceful column again. John also wants to run. _Johnny Quick, Johnny Quick_.

"John," Sherlock repeats, more gently. "Alright? I thought you wanted - "

_So long as I'm not solved, he'll keep me about._

"Yeah," John interrupts. "Yeah, fine. I do, yeah. One kiss." It's negotiation, not flirting. "I guess that's fair."

"Fair?" Sherlock frowns, shrugs off John's hands, starts to turn away. Outside the window, the fireworks are dying away. "Never mind, then."

"No." It's the courage of the desperate that makes John grab Sherlock's arm and pull him back around. "No, fuck. Sorry." Before he can think too hard, John stands on his toes and crushes his mouth against Sherlock, all teeth and tongue and challenge, and the other boy grunts in surprise. Their noses mash painfully, and John and John thinks it's been so long since he kissed anyone maybe he's forgotten how it's done, but then Sherlock tilts his chin, adjusting the angle, and backing a hairsbreadth away at the same time, and suddenly it's soft and gentle and tender, and John almost forgets to be on guard.

"Perfect," Sherlock breaths against John's mouth. "John. You taste... _you're perfect_."

John shuts him up with a squeeze on his arse. They're pressed against each other now, thighs slotted perfectly, Sherlock bent at the knees so John doesn't have to stand on his toes, and John's got one hand fisted in Sherlock's sweatshirt. He can feel Sherlock's desire, hard and hot through pajama pants and expensive denim both, and it makes John quiver, that evidence of want, and he wonders if they're about to get undressed and fuck on the hard floor, or maybe on Sherlock's bed, and when he shivers again he's not sure if it's fear or lust.

Sherlock pulls his mouth away, leaving John's lips warm and wet and wanting.

"John," Sherlock says, because he knows, of course he knows, he's a daft genius, he sees everything, even John's nerves, and John would hate it if he didn't so badly want Sherlock's mouth again.  "Just this, John. Just this. It's enough, I promise you."

John nods, and for the second time in a night he's near tears. He reaches up and pulls Sherlock back down, lets the kiss start again, sweet and slow, and the daft genius is perfectly right: It's enough.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baker Street Irregulars will see you again Valentine's Day.
> 
> If you like what you read here (sweet m/m romance with unrepentant violence), take a peek at my THORNS:
> 
> http://www.amazon.com/Thorns-Corbin-Beast-Book-1-ebook/dp/B00R55WVD2/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1420349618&sr=8-1&keywords=thorns+alex+hall
> 
> Yes, it's support your local me Sunday.
> 
> Randomly, I had Ed Sheeran's PHOTOGRAPH on loop whilst I wrote this update. Have you heard it? I'm not too old to sing out loud to Ed.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr. Lately I've been reblogging keyword 'chic'.

**Author's Note:**

> Second chapter goes up NYE, third and final chapter NYD. 
> 
> Have you seen the Watson Tartan?
> 
> http://www.scotclans.com/scottish_clans/clan_watson/tartan.html

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Behind the Clockface [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6278404) by [TheGayDivorcee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGayDivorcee/pseuds/TheGayDivorcee)




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